A Foreign Country
by Gina44144
Summary: Gen, preseries. Sam wants a bike for his birthday. There's only two problems: Dean doesn't know how to ride a bike and a bike won't fit in a duffle bag.


Title: A Foreign Country

Author: relli86

Rating: G

Words: 4,822

Spoilers: None

Characters/Pairings: Gen, preseries. John, Sam, Dean, and Bobby

Summary: Sam wants a bike for his birthday. There are only two problems: Dean doesn't know how to ride a bike and a bike won't fit in a duffle bag.

Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own the Winchesters or Supernatural, no matter how much I may want to.

Author's Note: I started writing this story over a year ago. And I finally decided to actually finish it. It's the first story I've posted in a year. The title comes from this quote by Leslie Poles Hartley, "The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there." Thanks to gwendolyngrace for the very helpful beta. It's much less schmoopy because of her (and it's still pretty schmoopy).

"Guess what I want for my birthday, Dean!" Sam said, as Dean stirred their Chef Boyardee ravioli dinner in the pot.

"A pet rock."

"No!" Sam exclaimed. "That's what you got me _last _year. And Carlos only lasted a week before we had to throw him at that mean dog with the foaming teeth. 'Member?"

Dean smirked because, honestly, how could he forget? The newly six-year-old Sammy had carried that rock around with him everywhere. He slept with it, fed it Fruit Loops, and even made it a tiny little sombrero out of old paper bag for Cinco de Mayo – to celebrate his Mexican heritage, of course.

It wasn't his fault the kid had believed him when he said he'd gotten the rock in Mexico. It had been a few more months before Sammy realized that Iowa was nowhere near Mexico. Dean sighed inwardly – those were simpler times. Now that Sam could read a map he liked to give a constant narration of their progress. _We're almost halfway through Wyoming now, Dean! If we follow this line, we'll be in Nebraska in three fingers. _

This, of course, always led to questions, and if Dean was really lucky, updates about the current state of Sammy's bladder_. _And there was only so much of that Dean could take.

Thank God he'd found that abandoned Walkman in the motel in Monkey's Eyebrow, Arizona – and yeah, they'd both gotten a kick out of that one. He'd discovered it underneath the bed with the banana bedspread – the other bed had monkeys swinging from tree limbs – unnoticed by the maids and discarded by the previous owner. By the time they left the motel – Dean had been happy to be far away from the shower curtain with the bathing monkeys because hey, creepy – he had the Walkman working properly, stealing Dad's Zeppelin tapes and using them to signal to Sam that Dean was taking a break from little brother amusement. Fortunately, the kid caught on fast, camping out with a book whenever Dean put the headphones on.

A chair scratching against the floor pulled Dean out of his thoughts. Seconds later, Sam was at his side, looking up at him expectantly.

"Oh, right," Dean said, giving the ravioli another stir, "What do you want for your birthday?"

"A bike!" Sammy declared, bouncing up on his toes as he did so.

Dean was pretty sure a bike couldn't fit into Sam's duffel bag, and Dean knew the rules. _If you can't fit it into the bag, you're shit out of luck_. Those may not have been Dad's exact words, but Dean was fluent in John-speak and that's what he meant.

Looking at Sam, Dean saw his little brother's round and hopeful eyes, water surrounding the edges ready to breach the perimeter at the first sign of refusal, and knew that he was screwed.

"I'll see what I can do, Sammy," Dean told him, thankful he still had a couple of months before his birthday.

****

Two weeks before Sammy's birthday, Dad dropped them off at Bobby's, which was, Dean decided, possibly the best timing _ever_. So far, Dean had had no luck figuring out the whole bike situation. But Bobby's junkyard was a treasure chest of discarded things and Dean knew there had to be a bike out there somewhere.

But it turned out that finding a bike wasn't that difficult. The first night they were there, after Sam was asleep, Dean filled Bobby in on his plan. "Well, kid," Bobby had said, "I think I have exactly what you're looking for."

The next day, Dean followed Bobby into his shed, watching in interest as Bobby rummaged around for a few minutes. Bobby moved tools, an old engine, and what seemed like hundreds of car parts that Dean was pretty sure were too rusted to actually power a car. Finally, hidden in the corner, Bobby uncovered a rusted-to-hell bike with only one wheel.

Dean was skeptical at first, but once Bobby found the other wheel underneath a pile of spare tires and put it back on the bike, Dean figured he could whip it into shape. He had money saved and used it to buy a new chain and tires at the bike shop in town. Once he'd replaced the chain and tires, the hard part began.

Sammy wanted a bike so, Dean figured, he would also want to ride it. Which would mean someone would have to teach him. Which was fine. Except that Dean didn't know how to ride a bike. Which was a problem. A big one.

He found a secluded place behind one of the bigger piles of junk and stared at the bike in front of him, trying to figure out the best way to approach this.

Dean tried to work on the balancing thing first, but he kept leaning to one side, unable to stay upright for too long.

Balancing precariously on the pedals with his butt off the seat, Dean's right foot slipped off the pedal and his crotch came down on the middle bar of the bike – hard. Dean let out an "ompf" and rolled off of the bike, crumpling on the dirt and holding his dick like his freaking balls were going to fall off.

_Oh, God_, Dean thought, _should've worn a freakin' cup_. There were some things you didn't risk, and Dean had seen enough, even at eleven, to know this was one of them. He wondered if this blunt trauma would have the same effect on still-growing-but-still-little-Dean as smoking was supposed to have on height. He sure as hell hoped not.

Once the pain had subsided to a bearable level, Dean forced himself back to his feet, resisted the urge to kick the stupid bike, and decided to call it a day. He hobbled back to the house, one hand on his dick because he didn't care what the hell Bobby thought – it _hurt_.

When he reached the back door, he wrenched open the creaky screen with his free hand and limped into the kitchen. Bobby – God bless him – said nothing from his spot by the window, just handed him a towel filled with ice. Dean accepted it gladly, lowered himself onto the kitchen chair and stuck the ice right on his balls through his jeans.

"Bikes suck," Dean informed him. "A lot."

Bobby's mouth twitched at that, but Dean had to hand it to him when he managed to refrain from an all-out chuckle.

"You want some help?" Bobby asked. "It's been awhile, but I think I still remember how."

Dean felt his cheeks flush, suddenly embarrassed. It was just Bobby, not his dad or jerks from school with their BMXs and tricks and crappy-ass ramps their daddies had made for them, but he felt ashamed all the same. He shook his head, fast and insistent. "Nah, I'll get it. Just working out the kinks."

Bobby nodded, gave Dean a pat on the shoulder that said _I know you will_, and left him alone. Bobby was good at that; he always seemed to know if Dean needed words or silence, company or solitude. There were a lot of reasons Dean liked being at Bobby's – most of which he never even thought, let alone said aloud – but this was one he'd admit without hesitation. Bobby just got people. He called them on their bullshit, never hesitated to use a shotgun or two to get the truth, but usually it wasn't needed. Usually Bobby just knew by one long look in the eyes. Dean guessed it was part of being a con man. And sometimes it made him want to invest in a really good pair of sunglasses.

****

That night, lying in bed with his balls swollen a deep purple, Dean considered just giving up. Sam wouldn't have any idea what Dean had tried to do, so no harm, no foul. Right?

Except it wasn't that easy; it never was with Sam.

It took Dean a while to fall asleep. He tossed and turned, trying to devise a plan of attack in his head. Finally, at around one, he fell into an uneasy sleep. The next thing he knew, something was shaking his arm. Dean's eyes sprung open, and he bolted up in bed. His gaze was fixed on the ridiculously small wrist held tight in his grasp. A slightly pained whimper drew Dean's attention to a pair of wide eyes that triggered recognition in Dean's mind. He dropped the wrist as if it had burned him. "Jesus, Sam," Dean breathed, "You okay?"

Sam was holding his wrist to his chest, clad in too small flannel pajamas that had belonged to Dean a couple of years ago. Sam nodded his okay. "Sorry," he whispered, "I didn't mean to scare you."

Dean gave him a half smile and scooted over in the bed, making room for Sam. "You didn't scare me," Dean said, as he patted the bed next to him. "You sure you're okay?"

Sammy nodded again as he climbed in next to Dean. They resettled into the comfortable and familiar position – shoulder-to-shoulder, cold foot-to-cold foot. After a couple minutes of silence, Sam spoke, his voice small and uncertain. "Are you okay, Dean?"

Dean turned his head to look at Sam across their shared pillow. "Yeah," Dean answered in confusion, "why?"

Sam chewed on his lip for a few seconds before answering. "You were having a bad dream. That's why I shook you awake."

"Oh," Dean mumbled, images of blonde hair and a bearded smile at the edges of his memory. But he pushed the pictures back. He didn't want to remember now. "I . . . I don't really remember it," he said, staring up at the ceiling.

Sam shifted his position, rolling onto his side to face Dean. "You were sad," Sam said. "I didn't want you to be sad."

Dean's head got a little fuzzy at that. The kind of fuzzy that comes right before you start crying. He held back the tears, willed the fuzziness away, and then turned on his side to mirror Sam's position. "Thanks, Sammy."

Sam gave him a small smile and turned back onto his back. "I'm just gonna stay here tonight. It's cold all alone."

Dean recognized the words he had said to Sam countless times after his little brother had had a bad dream and needed to sleep with him. Sure, the kid could be an annoying little pest, but sometimes . . . "Stay on your side, Squirt," Dean said, elbowing Sam playfully.

Sam elbowed him back. "Stay on yours, Jerk!"

Then Dean laughed and decided that learning how to ride a bike couldn't be that hard.

***

Dean was wrong. Learning how to ride a bike _could _be that hard. Give him a gun, a crossbow, hell, a freakin' _machete_ and he could handle it, but ask him to balance on two wheels? Apparently that was too damn much for him. He picked himself up from the dirt – again – and turned his arm to inspect the damage to his elbow. The scrapes that had healed over from a couple of days ago were bleeding again, blood streaming down the length of his arm and dripping onto the ground.

Three straight days of fighting with the stupid rusted bike and all Dean had to show for it was bruised balls and scraped-to-hell knees and elbows. Sammy was starting to get pretty damn suspicious too, kept asking Dean what he was doing all day and why he was so bloody and dirty. There were only so many times that Bobby could distract Sam with a book or task before the kid just decided to dog Dean all day, making it impossible for him to finish his task.

Dean considered putting off the actual bike riding for now and moving on to the painting and refinishing part of his project, but the last thing he wanted was to put all that work into making the bike presentable and then messing it up with his pathetic attempts at riding it. So he picked the bike back up and was about to hop onto it again when he saw Bobby emerge from the pile of junk he was using to conceal his base of operations.

Dean straightened up, his hand on one of the bike's handlebars to keep it upright. He watched Bobby as he approached, hands in both pockets and eyes on Dean. Bobby stopped once he reached the other side of the bike and took his eyes off of Dean to give the bike a once over. "How's it going?" he asked once his perusal was complete.

Dean shrugged, used the toe of his shoe to dig a hole in the dirt. "Not so great," he finally answered.

Bobby nodded and took hold of the other handle, pulling the bike out of Dean's grasp. He rolled it forward a few feet, then backward. Bent down and checked the chain. Rotated the handlebars to see if the alignment was right. Dean stood stock still as if he was under some kind of military inspection, then realized what he was doing and slouched down, told himself this was just Bobby.

"It looks good, Dean," Bobby said, "a little paint, some new grips on the handlebars and you'll never know this thing had rusted out in the yard for a decade."

"Amount of rust on it, has to have been at least two," Dean said.

Bobby laughed out, "Probably," and then grew silent, rubbing a hand through his beard. "Thing about riding a bike," he said after a long minute of silence, "is, that first time, you really need two people. Damn near impossible to find your balance and get into a rhythm to pedal at the same time."

Dean felt the blush return to his cheeks and looked down, trying to hide his shame. The hole he had dug moments before grew bigger, the dirt bearing the brunt of his embarrassment. When Dean didn't say anything, Bobby cleared his throat and Dean glanced up to see him start to turn away. "Alright, kiddo," Bobby said, "You know where I'll be."

As Bobby headed back towards the house, Dean knew he had two options. Either suck it up and ask Bobby for help or spend the rest of his time at Bobby's losing a daily battle to a hunk of metal and wheels. It wasn't that hard of a choice.

"Bobby?" Dean called out tentatively. Bobby stopped and turned back, raising an eyebrow questioningly. "Would you . . . ?" Dean began, but Bobby didn't make him finish – he never did.

"Yeah, Dean," Bobby answered, coming back towards him and laying a soft hand on his shoulder, "Yeah."

******

It was about a million times easier with Bobby there. Bobby hadn't lied when he said this bike thing was a two-man job. While Bobby held the bike steady with one hand on the back of the seat, Dean pumped away on the pedals. When Bobby let go the first time, he made it to the middle of the junk pile before promptly falling off the side, knee scraped once again. The second time, Dean got to the end of the pile and was making his first turn when he lost his equilibrium, crashing hard to his left.

On the third time, with Bobby's steadying presence, Dean finally found his balance and kept it, making it past the pile and back again. As he gained confidence, he pumped the pedals harder and loosened his grip on the handlebars. He carved a path through the junkyard, making sure to keep far from the house so Sammy wouldn't see him. He even raised his butt off the seat, putting more weight on the pedals and increasing his speed.

Dean came close to losing his balance a few times, but held on and straightened himself, learned how to manage the turns and speed changes, the bumps of dirt and metal he rode over. The wind blew dirt in his eyes, but he didn't care. He wasn't going that fast, but he liked being in control of his route, like when Dad first taught him how to drive the Impala.

He kept riding, going further into the junkyard and only turning around once he reached the barbed wire fence that lined Bobby's property. When he finally made his way back to his starting place at least fifteen minutes, Bobby was still there, a soft smile on his face.

Right in front of Bobby, Dean braked hard and almost sent himself flying over the handlebars. His face was the good kind of flushed – adrenaline and sweat induced. "Wow," he said, through soft pants, "that's pretty awesome."

Bobby's smile grew and he clapped a hand on Dean's back. "You looked pretty good out there. You've really got the hang of it now."

Dean ducked his head at the praise. "Well, you were right," he said, smirking slowly creeping onto his face, "But don't let that go to your head, old man."

The smile dropped off Bobby's face and the hand he had used to slap Dean on the back in praise came up to smack him on the back of the head. "Don't 'old man' me, boy" he said, turning away and grumbling to himself as he walked back towards the house.

Dean laughed at Bobby's grizzly bear default attitude, knowing he was just like that fabric softener bear on the inside. When Bobby was out of sight, Dean sat back on the bike and pedaled backwards in place. He waited until his breaths evened out and watched the sun fall below the highest pile of junk in the yard.

He ran a hand over the handlebars and remembered when he had done this same thing years before. His hands had been smaller and the bike had had training wheels. He'd been wearing a helmet and knee pads and elbow pads – Mom's rules. Dad had been there, hand on the back of the seat. Dad had let go, and one of the training wheels had inexplicably broken off, sending Dean crashing to the ground. But Mom had been there before he could get out more than shocked cry. Later, Dad had fixed the wheel and helped Dean put a baseball card in his spokes, promising that they'd try again next weekend. After Halloween. They never did.

Dean wiped at the tears on his face with dirty hands. Nodded to himself. Whispered, "Yeah," into the darkening sky. Whispered, "Yeah," to the figures that existed only in his memories.

****

Dad came back the night before Sam's birthday, and Dean breathed a huge sigh of relief. Sam was hopped up on the mere thought of birthday cake and kept waking Dean up every two hours to ask what time it was.

At 6:00 in the morning, Sam would no longer believe it was only 11:55, and Dean had no choice but to get up and make Sam their traditional chocolate chip birthday pancakes. Bobby usually banned Dean from the kitchen, insisting he go outside and keep the dogs company or run himself ragged chasing after Sam, but Dean had asked the night before if he could make Sam pancakes and Bobby had given him permission. Once the batter hit the griddle, Bobby and Dad emerged, sleepy eyed with their hair askew.

"It's my birthday!" Sammy yelled as soon as he saw them. Dean grinned to himself as both Dad and Bobby took a step back at Sam's enthusiasm.

"Tone it down, dorkwad," Dean told him as he flipped a pancake, "It's your birthday all day and you're already making us sick of it."

Sam stuck his tongue out at Dean. "I don't care! I'm seven now so that means you can't boss me around."

"Yeah?" Dean said, putting the last of the pancakes onto the plate and carrying them over to the table, where Dad and Bobby had claimed their customary places, coffee in hand. "It definitely doesn't mean that."

"Yes it does!" Sam insisted, "Doesn't it, Dad?"

The cup of coffee was halfway to Dad's lips at Sam's question. He paused long enough to grunt, "Sure, son, whatever you say."

Sam didn't seem to register the sarcastic tone in Dad's voice. "See," he said to Dean.

Dean rolled his eyes and sat down next to Sam. "Just eat your pancakes."

***

Sam managed to make it until the breakfast dishes were washed before he started asking about his birthday gifts. Dean managed to resist until noon, when he came out of the bathroom to find Sammy waiting outside the door.

Sam didn't even have to say a word. Once Dean saw the hopeful look on his face, he relented. "Alright, Sammy, just wait in the house. I gotta go get it."

"Where is it? Outside? Why is it outside? What is it? Is it something alive? A dog?"

"Sam!" Dean cut him off. "I'll. Be. Right. Back. Chill out." Dean headed out of the door before Sam could answer.

Bobby and Dad were on the front porch when Dean stepped outside. Dad tilted his head at Dean, "What's up, dude?"

Dean chewed on the bottom of his lip and rubbed the back of his neck. He hadn't told Dad what he had gotten Sam for his birthday. He knew he wouldn't be happy about it. "Sam's going to burst a blood vessel if I don't give him his gift soon. That okay?"

Dad nodded. "Sure. What'd you get him anyway?"

Dean had a brief moment of full-on panic before Bobby saved his ass. "Ah, John, got a little eavesdropper around here. Wouldn't want to ruin the surprise."

Dad seemed satisfied by that, so Dean took the opportunity for a quick getaway. He walked to Bobby's shed, where Bobby'd let Dean store the bike once he'd finished it. Once inside, he gave it a last once over. He'd painted it a deep red, and Bobby had taken him into town to get new grips for the handlebars and a new seat. There had been some streamers in the small bike shop, and Dean couldn't resist buying a couple to put in the handlebars. Teasing Sam about being a girl never really got old.

Satisfied that his work was done, Dean rolled the bike out from the shed and back towards the house. He watched his father's face as he caught sight of the bike and felt his heart sink at the deep frown he found there. The front screen door swinging open broke Dean's eye contact with his dad. Sam came bounding out of the house at a dead sprint.

"A bike!" Sammy yelled, "It's a bike!"

When he reached the bike, he ran his hand over it reverently. "It's AWESOME, Dean! I love the color and the wheels and it's just so cool."

Sam's happiness pushed Dad's disapproval to the back of Dean's mind. He couldn't stop himself from grinning along with Sam.

"And," Sam continued, as he came to the handlebars, "these streamers are so cool."

Dean rolled his eyes. His brother might actually be a girl. "You're such a girl, Samantha," he told him.

"It's my birthday," Sam told him – again. "You can't call me a girl."

"You're gonna have to write down all these rules for me. So I know them for my birthday."

Sam ignored Dean, too caught up in his new bike to respond. He turned towards the front porch. "Dad! Bobby! Did you see what Dean got me?"

Dad and Bobby were making their way over to them. The frown on Dad's face had grown into a full out scowl, and Dean had the sudden urge to turn back time, to tell Sammy a bike was just not going to happen when he'd first mentioned it.

"Dean worked real hard on that for you, Sammy," Bobby said once he'd reached them.

Sam's eyes widened. "Is that what you were doing out here all those days?" he asked Dean.

Dean only nodded. The discovery of his effort left him feeling almost exposed, like some part of him had been momentarily bared to the world. The feeling was new, and it left a sour taste Dean's mouth.

"Thank you," Sam said, as he threw his arms around Dean's middle, "It's exactly what I wanted!" Dean hugged him back briefly, pushed the new feeling away, and thought that maybe Sam's happiness was worth Dad's disapproval. He ruffled Sam's hair and grinned down at him. "See," he said, falling back into tried and true big brother taunts, "girl."

Sam let go at that, huffing out the obligatory, "_Dean_," in response, but his smile didn't fade. He turned back to his bike and murmured, "Too cool," to himself.

"Sammy," Dad said, the tone of his voice sending the dread back into Dean's stomach, "You know that you can't take that with you?"

Sam looked back at Dad, his face dropping. "Why not? It's not fair. Other kids have bikes. They have bike racks you can put on the back of the car. Or we can put it on the top."

"_Sam_," Dad said in his way that meant that this was the end of the discussion. Even though Dean knew this would happen, he had hoped that Dad would wait until after Sam's birthday.

Bobby stepped into mediate. "Sam, you can keep the bike in the shed. And whenever you're here, it's all yours."

Sam ran his hand back over the bike, a full pout on his face. "It should be mine all the time."

"If you want this bike at all," Dad said, shaking his finger at Sam, "you'll stop complaining right now. You hear me?"

When Sam didn't say anything, Dad repeated himself. "Sam? You hear me?"

Sam's lower lip quivered and his eyes welled up, but he still managed a reluctant, "Yes, sir."

Dean watched the entire exchange with a sinking feeling, knowing it was all his fault. He shouldn't have even entertained the idea. Dean spared a glance at Dad, who caught his eye and frowned in a way that told Dean they'd be having a conversation later.

Sam, with the attention span of a seven-year-old boy and the emotional mood swings of a sixty-year-old woman, turned back to his bike, a smiling coming back onto his face. "Dean," he said, "will you teach me?"

Sam's eyes were big and hopeful. Dean was just about to say yeah, when he glanced at Dad again. The scowl was off his face and instead of looking disapproving, his eyes were sad and distant, fixed on Sammy. Dean had seen the same look on his face whenever he caught him looking at a picture of Mom or them, from before. Dean thought he knew what he might be remembering right then.

Dean had spent three days teaching himself to ride a bike just so he could teach Sam. He had fallen countless times and lost several layers of skin on his knees and elbows. But it should be Dad doing the teaching and, more surprising to Dean, it looked like he wanted to. And Dean knew what he had to do.

"I don't know how, Sammy," he lied, swallowing the truth. "You'll have to ask Dad."

Sam turned to Dad, looking up at him with big puppy dog eyes. "Daddy?" Sam asked, the previous fight already forgotten. "Will you?"

Dad smiled, the lost look leaving his eyes. "Yeah, Sammy. Let's do it, dude."

****

Dean was sitting on the porch, watching Dad teach Sam how to ride the bike, when Bobby came out of the house and sat down next to him. They sat in companionable silence for a couple of minutes until Bobby cleared his throat and turned his head slightly to look at Dean.

"Hell of a thing you did there, kiddo," Bobby said.

Dean shrugged, kept silent. He tried to sort out the thoughts in his head. Tried to separate the past in his memories from the present. The father he knew from the one before him.

"Sometimes," Dean said, "Sometimes I forget what he was like before."

"And how's that?" Bobby asked.

Dean stared at Sam and Dad. Sam was perched on the bike, hands gripping the handlebars and feet on the pedals. Dad had his hand on the back of the seat, steadying him. "On the count of three," Dad said. When Dad reached three, they started moving together in tandem and then Dad let go of the seat. Sam stayed upright for about five seconds then fell hard. Dad was by his side in an instant, lifting the bike off of him and helping him up. Dad smiled and brushed the dirt off of Sam's face, ruffled his hair.

Dean rested his chin on his knee, eyes glued to the scene in front of him. "Just like that," he answered. "Just like that."


End file.
